Well, what a terrific weekend. I’m sorry for not boring you over the past few days but it couldn’t be helped. I’m sorry about that but I’ll try to get right back to it toute de suite, and with any luck I’ll be as crushingly boring as ever.
I went to Donegal for the weekend. I went to visit my old friends whom I haven’t seen for about ten or fifteen fucking years. Amazingly. Due to shit happening. And stuff. And all the cocksuckers you have to put up with in the course of your life that you have to deal with, depriving you of time to spend with your real friends that you know all your fuckin life and that you should have stuck with in the first place instead of wasting your time with other cunts. Pause. Pause again. Short break . . .
. . . . and a deep breath. Good! Much better.
So anyhow, I went to Donegal to revisit my friends, the Little Dove of Peace and the Fact-Bastard. He’s known as the Little Dove of Peace from his well-known habit of nutting people he disagrees with, but as it’s a cumbersome title, we’ll just call him “Ed”. The Fact-Bastard is known by many names, all of them accurate, and therefore, to preserve his anonymity, I’ll just call him “Gallagher”. Among other thing, I went to Donegal to see if I could meet Garda Joan Gallagher, no relation to the Fact-Bastard, it’s just that pretty much everyone in Donegal is either called Gallagher or Doherty. A handsome woman, Joan Gallagher, as fine a specimen of BanGardahood as I have seen, and a native speaker of the Garda dialect. Shut the fuck up, ya wee cunt!! Sorry Joan.
It took about six hours to drive to Letterkenny on Friday. Can you believe that? Six hours? Imagine if it took six hours to drive anywhere on the east coast! Jesus, they’d be passing laws to build Luas tracks faster than you could say “The Pale”. But anyway, it did. It was a long journey. Long.
I stopped at Knock. Another pause while everybody laughs. What? Yes, Knock. I stopped at fucking Knock because I was hungry and I was tired and I was looking for some kind of meaning in my pathetic little fucking life. OK? No, that’s a lie. I was looking for food. What can I say about Knock? What can I say that hasn’t already been retailed by a million people commenting on the place? Nothing. I can say nothing extra. Knock is fucking weird and may well be the weirdest place I have ever seen in my entire life, including Scunthorpe. They have the St Mary’s gift shop. They have the Queen of Peace Nursing Home in case you decide to die of depression in the fucking place. There’s a row of shops selling Haily Marys and Haily Holies and Haily Hallelujahs and Holy fucking Molies. They have Knock holy water pistols. They have portraits of Pope Ratzo the First. They have inflatable sex dolls of Ratzo the First. They have holy water beds.
By the time I’d finished wandering past the Knock shops, I found myself wishing they had a Satanist shop, just to break the monotony. I think the postcard outside one of the shops unwittingly summed it up. You can’t fool all of the people all of the time, but you can fool enough to make a living.
As I said, I was starving, and so I wandered into one of the many fine eating establishments they have in Knock. First class grub. First fucking class, I was sure of it, for how could such a devout Christian people ever offer a traveller less than the best? Unthinkable for anybody who follows the word of Jesus, and by Christ there was never a people who followed Jesus better than the people of Knock. Or not. Let me just check that for a second.
No. Oops, sorry. I just checked and in fact the people of Knock couldn’t give a flying fuck about Jesus. No, in fact they’re standard Irish Catholics who don’t believe in Jesus at all at all at all at all and just worship his mother instead. Right. Over to you, Ratzo.
Now, this is where I put my foot in it because, you see, I was fucking starving after hours on the road, and really a man needs a good feed after that. It didn’t seem unreasonable to ask the girl at the counter for a steak and chips but I might as well have asked for a young boy and a private sacristy.
Steak? Yeah: with chips.
Steak? But it’s a Friday!!
So fuckin what? Gimme grub!!
It’s a fuckin Friday. You’re gettin no fuckin steak here, ya bollocks.
Right then. Fuck you. Gimme a frozen cod and chips.
All right. That’ll be nineteen euros.
See me? Rebel.
Late now. Will write more on this tomorrow.